“Well,” my mom sniffs. “She doesn’t like it at Doug’s. Doug doesn’t like it at Doug’s. He played a video game here yesterday! Your father thought we were having a military eventin the house.”
Normally I’d laugh at this. Maybe some part of me is laughing, but I can’t get to that part, not right now. I’m tired and sad and in a stupid amount of pain. Getting hit by a bike, for God’s sake. Maybe I’d laugh at that too, if I were literally any other person. If I had any other body. Instead I say, “Yeah. His video games are pretty loud.”
“I asked Humphrey to stop by there after work yesterday. But he said no. He said we should give you some space.” I shift against my pillows, my face heating. I’ll need to apologize to Humph. He’d stopped by here before work yesterday, on his own accord, I guess, bringing a loaf of banana bread Felipe had made me. I’d accused him of doing Mom’s bidding, coming to check up on me, and even after that, I’dstilltaken the banana bread.
I am a jerk of the first degree.
“He’s right.”
“You’re still weak,” Mom says, and I know she just means from the accident. My wrist in a cast, my brain foggy in the mornings from the muscle relaxers I take before bed, the cuts on my head and leg alternately burning and itching, my whole body tender from bruises I didn’t even know I had. But of course that’s not what I hear, and right now, I’m too tired, too frustrated to manage my response.
“I’m not weak,” I snap at her, and I hear her intake of breath through the phone.
There’s a few seconds of silence while my mom probably does one of two moves. Either a dramatic gathering of courage—chest expanding, chin raising, eyes steeling—or, if my dad’s nearby, a subtle but effective crumpling—shoulders curling in, lips trembling, brows furrowing. “I guess you don’t need my help, then,” she says, so it was definitely the crumpling move. She sniffles again, and myheart clenches.
“Mom, I’m sorry.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, then jerk my hand away when I feel the soreness there reassert itself. By Sunday afternoon, what I’d thought would just be some slight bruising around my eyebrow had developed into a full black eye, and the only good thing about that was that Alex had been gone by the time it’d looked its worst.
“I know you’re just trying to help. But it—” I pause, resettle my head on the pillow, try to think of how to say this in a way that won’t be hurtful. “It feels better to be by myself right now. It makes me feel stronger.”Sort of,a voice in my head adds, the same voice that practically screamed out a Susan Hawthorne-inspiredNoooooooo!as Alex had walked out my hospital room door.
Almost a whole week ago now. Forever ago.
“I don’t mean to smother you, Greens.” Her voice is softer now. “I know youdon’t like it.”
My head fills with old memories. My mom lying next to me in a hospital bed, gingerly placing herself so as not to disturb all the things attached to me, telling me ridiculous, surely embellished stories about her time in New York, making me laugh so hard that she’d have to pat my arm to settle me, to keep me from disturbing some of those things myself. Directing my brothers and sister like a small army of caretakers, the look of icy warning she’d give any one of them if they acted—even for a second—like I was an inconvenience. Her mask of genuine, devastated shock when my first neurologist had told her about my diagnosis.
“You don’t smother me, Mom.” I curl my toes against the arm of the sofa, a tiny reaction to a tiny untruth. Kenneth stands from his bread loaf positionand sulks away.
“You know I love you.”
I’m doing a pretty good crumple myself right now, actually, hearing those words—I love you. I’ve heard them a lot, over the last week—my mom and dad, my siblings, Kit and Zoe.I love you; won’t you please come home with us? We love you; we just don’t want you pushing yourself. I love you, but I think you’re being stubborn. I love you, but you absolutelyneed a shower.
I’m so—I’m soluckyto have all this love. So why doI feel so bad?
There’s a knock at the door, and I close my eyes in fatigue and frustration. “I know, Mom. I love you too. I’m going to get some rest, okay?” I say it quietly, hoping my guests—and I know it’s guests,plural—won’t hear.
When I hang up, I stay comically still. Mummification still. I could dothis all night.
Another knock, and then Kit’s muffled voice: “I broughtBen’s toolbox.”
Zoe shouts, “I watched a video on how to pick a lock!”
Kit: “Iwatched the video.”
There’s a slight scuffle, a squeal of surprise, and I swing my legs—gingerly—onto the carpeted floor. If I don’t open for them, Joyce will call complex security, which is basically comprised of a guy named Darryl who wears what looks like a UPS uniform while he rides around the sidewalks on a Segway. Zoe always says he probably stole all the badges on his sleeves from a Girl Scout.
“I’m coming.” I hobble toward the door, not because of my injuries but because I’ve been lying around so long. I flick on the dining room light as I go, because I don’t need them to know the full extent of my weirdness, that I’ve been in the dark most of the night, thinking and crying about a man I sent away.
“Whoa,” Zoe says, when I open the door, her eyes widening as she takes me in.
Kit’s holding her tricep, rubbing her palm over it. “She pinched me.” She looks up, her face transforming from surprised indignation to surprised concern. “Your hair.”
I reach a hand up, encounter a tuft that must be sticking out dramatically from the side. I don’t bother fixing it. I should have had Ava stay, just for occasions like this. Maybe she could’ve finally taught me what contouring is. “I’vebeen sleeping.”
“Okay, well,” says Zoe, all business. “Wake up, because we’re tired of getting bland texts from you.”
Kit holds up her phone, lit up to show our long-running group text, and points to it. My most recent one says:I’m fine.I shrug, and try not to wince. Zoe moves past me, a box of pizza balanced on one palm, six glass bottles of my favorite fruit soda clinking together in a crate in her other.
“Ava said you can’t have alcohol until you’re done with your meds,” she says, setting both on the table. “Or else this would’ve been enough wine to make you tell usyour feelings.”
